


Purple Rose

by sariane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Kiss, Flashback, Getting Together, M/M, One Night Stands, young adult characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'd do a couple of flips on the high wire, grab onto this rope, and swing down while I loosed a few arrows and popped the last of the balloons," Barton says, his voice smug and oblivious as Phil stops behind him. "And then, I'd grab the rose out of midair, swing around the tent, and hand it to the prettiest girl in the audience." </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Phil tries not to smirk as he says, "That's not how I remember it."</i>
</p><p>Phil takes his sister to the circus, where he becomes intimately acquainted with the star of the show, Hawkeye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I need to stop turning my dreams into fics. I have no idea how this happened, honestly, but I needed to get it out of my system. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Please note that for the bulk of this story, Clint is 18 and Phil is 21.

Clint Barton is the first thing Phil sees when he walks into SHIELD's cafeteria for lunch. He's sitting in a chair tilted back on two legs with his feet propped up on the table, facing a small crowd of junior agents. They’re entranced by whatever story he’s telling, and Phil knows from years of working with Barton that he’s bragging, and basking in the attention.

Phil watches Barton animatedly tell some kind of story as he stands in line with his tray. A spike of fondness squeezes a smile out of him, which he disguises as polite thanks to the kitchen staff (who are not actually afraid of him, thank you very much) as he helps himself to his SHIELD-regulated-diet. He picks up a piece of pie that is definitely _not_ in said diet, and takes his tray in Barton's direction to ruin his story. He enjoys being a dick, sometimes – at least where Barton’s concerned.

The junior agents on the opposite side of the table see him coming (they _are_ afraid of him) and pale considerably, but Barton doesn't seem to notice Phil sneaking up on him. He rocks in his chair a little and speaks with his hands, relishing the admiration. Phil stops when he hears what story he's telling from a decade long past.

"-- So I'd do a couple of flips on the high wire, grab onto this rope, and swing down while I loosed a few arrows and popped the last of the balloons," Barton says, his voice smug and oblivious as Phil stops behind him. "And then, I'd grab the rose out of midair, swing around the tent, and hand it to the prettiest girl in the audience." The agents surrounding him laugh, some in disbelief and some in awe. Phil crosses his arms, sobering a few of them immediately.

Phil tries not to smirk as he says, "That's not how I remember it."

***

The walk across the fairgrounds, from Phil's beat-up car to the ticket booth, is just chilly enough that Rebecca steals his jacket from him before they're even halfway there.

"I told you to bring a jacket," he sighs, crossing his arms over his thin t-shirt.

" _I_ told you to take me to the movies," Rebecca replies sulkily. "This is karma."

"No, this is you being scheming and vengeful," Phil says, but he can't hide the smile in his voice. "Remember, we parked close to that tree in the sixth row."

"I won't remember," she sighs, tying her brown hair back as they finally reach the ticket booth. "You won't remember. We'll be searching for hours."

"You have so much confidence in me," Phil laughs before he turns to the bored-looking teller and pays for both their tickets.

"Enjoy the show," he says in a monotone as he hands two tickets under the ticket window.

"Yeah right," Rebecca mutters, elbowing Phil in the side as they pass underneath a sign proclaiming "Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders!" in bright, colorful letters. "Christ, why did I agree to this?"

Phil smiles blandly as he hands over his ticket stub and waits for Rebecca.

"It'll be fun. The circus isn't in town every day," he shrugs.

"You are such a nerd. Come on; let's get cotton candy and popcorn before you subject me to this horror."

Phil looks down at Rebecca and smiles fondly as she pulls his wallet from his hands and steps up to one of the vendors to buy them cotton candy. The circus isn’t big, just a bunch of little carnival stands, bright lights and colors drawing attention to food or fixed games, with a few fake illusions available to view at over-expensive prices. The tent is the main attraction, obviously, with its striped canvas walls and swelling music. They take their seats and chat until the show begins.

The first act of the circus proves to be boring, not that Phil will ever admit it to Rebecca. She turns to him ten minutes in, however, and they spend the rest of the night poking fun at the ringmaster, the tiger-tamer, and pretty much everyone except the clowns.

"This is so lame," Rebecca laughs as the lights come back on for a brief intermission. Phil leans back in his crappy dented metal seat, the third row in, and crosses his arms.

"Yeah, compared to your other Friday night plans," he scoffs. "What were you going to do? Watch _Dallas_ alone in your room and paint your nails?"

Rebecca scrunches up her face, "And what were you gonna do? Sort out your Captain America collection and beg Mom not to throw them out to make space while you're away because 'No, Mom, they're collectables'!?"

"They _are_ collectables," he protests, "Collectables that will be paying for your college education in a year or two." Rebecca straightens up in her chair and picks at the bag of crappy, too-salty popcorn in her lap.

"You know Mom says I don't have to go," she says. "She wants me to start working. Get married or whatever. As long as it isn’t to Michael," she chuckles humorlessly.

"That's bullshit," he says frankly, feeling guilty because he’s not sure he actually knows Michael. "You applied to a few places, didn't you?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, "Don't tell her, but -- I don't know. I just -- I think she had her heart set on you becoming a lawyer or something, and if one of her kids isn’t going to listen to her --"

"Yeah, right," Phil laughs bitterly.

"I was thinking of starting out pre-med," she admits in a small voice. "I know it's expensive, but -- I got into a few schools.”

"That's great!" he says, sitting up straight to hi-five her. She laughs at him for his corniness.

"Thanks," Rebecca shrugs, "How are you doing in --?"

She's cut off when the lights go down again, and Phil shrugs apologetically before they turn back to the show.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," the ringmaster drawls, the spotlights spinning around the ring, "May I present to you…The Amazing Hawkeye!"

Rebecca laughs into her hand beside him. The spotlights zero in on someone in the third ring, someone in a ridiculously bright purple costume. There’s a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows strapped around his back. Hawkeye raises his bare, muscular arms and steps closer towards the audience, his costume sparkling with every move.

"Oh," Rebecca stops laughing, "he's _cute._ " Phil nods without thinking, but _Christ_ , he's young.

"At the age of only eighteen, Hawkeye has mastered the art of archery!” the ringmaster proclaims with a sweep of his hand. With his cue, the band strikes up again. “He is a master of his craft, and the best marksman in the world!"

"Yeah, according to who?" Phil whispers to Rebecca skeptically.

Phil squints across the rings and watches as Hawkeye raises his bow and shoots his arrow with as much bravado as an archer can manage. It hits dead center. The crowd bursts into mild clapping as the spotlights spin around Hawkeye. He doesn't raise his arms in victory, however, just picks out another arrow and concentrates on the target.

"Bull’s-eye!" the ringmaster shouts as Hawkeye shoots another arrow. Phil blinks in disbelief. The arrow missed the center of the target -- instead, it shot right through the first arrow, splintering the wood and driving right into the center. The crowd picks up in cheers, now, and Rebecca claps her hands a few times as Hawkeye flawlessly hits all of the targets in seconds.

"You're just clapping because he has nice arms," Phil hisses at her. She laughs, and he shakes his head dismissively.

"Can I have a volunteer?" the ringmaster asks. Rebecca raises her hand high, but he chooses a young woman from the front row instead. The ringmaster directs her to stand against a wall by the targets and sets a green apple on her head. She pales considerably underneath the heat of the spotlight, and the music crescendos to match.

"Shit," Rebecca mutters, "I am _so_ glad he didn't pick me."

"Never fear, ladies and gents, for Hawkeye never misses!"

"Yeah, that'll hold up fine on the lawsuit," Phil snorts, but Hawkeye proves him wrong when he flawlessly hits the apple, pinning it to the plywood behind the blonde's head.

Hawkeye bows as the crowd cheers again, and finally smiles as he steps forward to kiss the blonde's hand and usher her back to her seat before he continues his act.

He passes closer to Phil and Rebecca as he walks around the rings, popping balloons and flying targets, until the crowd sounds kind of bored and he’s close enough that Phil can finally get a good look at him.

Rebecca's right, he is cute, even in that ridiculous getup. He's at least a few years younger than Phil, but he's stocky and strong, his bare arms evidence of how much work he must put into his act. Either that or he's on steroids, Phil muses. After a particularly good shot, Phil even finds himself clapping for a moment before he stops himself. Hawkeye bows in their general direction and Rebecca lets out a wolf-whistle. It’s followed by many others.

Finally, Hawkeye climbs to the high wire, shooting a few targets and doing some acrobatics that aren't particularly new, compared to what the trapeze artists had done earlier in the show. The ringmaster ushers a few clowns onto the floor. They’ve each got the edge of a large purple cloth that bobs as they move. The crowd quiets as the ringmaster prepares to speak.

"In a final display of his marksmanship, Hawkeye will pop each and every one of these balloons!" he announces, pulling the cloth away to reveal a bunch of sparkling white balloons held underneath the clowns’ net. "But, his true test will be determining which one holds a special prize…" He waves his hand towards Hawkeye, who’s standing on the tightrope, bow held loosely at his side. It’s high up, too high for Phil to see if there’s any fear in his eyes.

Hawkeye looks down at him – the crowd – and grins.

The ringmaster counts down; “Three, two, one!” and the clowns release the balloons into the tent. They rise quickly, the helium sending them upwards, but Hawkeye shoots and pops each of them effortlessly. Phil squints and tries to keep up, but he can’t.

"I think it’s in that one,” Rebecca says, pointing at one of the balloons. Hawkeye pops it moments later but it’s empty. Phil laughs into his hand as Rebecca frowns at him.

Hawkeye shoots a few more balloons as he runs across the tightrope, twisting and turning to get them all. He launches off to grab onto a rope, making Phil’s heart jump into his throat.

"Christ," Rebecca gasps, laughing in spite of herself as Hawkeye shoots a balloon while he’s still in midair. The one balloon left floats steadily upwards. Phil strains his eyes to make out the concentration on Hawkeye’s face as he shoots the prize balloon and swoops around on the rope, shifting his wait to reach out and pluck something from the air.

Hawkeye spins around above the crowd, holding a single flower over his head as the crowd cheers. Slowly, he loses momentum, swinging closer towards them on the rope.

Phil's heart jumps in his chest when he realizes that Hawkeye is going to stop right above them. He figures Rebecca's is too, from the way she's whispering "holy shit, holy shit, _holy shit,_ " in his ear.

Hawkeye stops right above them on the rope. His face and arms glisten with sweat and his costume looks even more ridiculous up close, the purple sequins scuffed from wear. He has his bow thrown over his shoulder, the only part of his costume that is plain and not purple. He lowers the rose -- Phil can see that it's colored purple, too -- and leans down on the rope to hold in front of Rebecca. She turns bright red and reaches out to take it with a stammered, "thank you," that Hawkeye can't possibly hear over the thunderous applause.

Phil belatedly notices the spotlight on them as he looks up at Hawkeye, meeting his blue eyes for a long moment. Hawkeye, with his head still turned to Rebecca like he's sharing a moment with her, stares at him for a second. He winks at Phil before the rope carries him up to the top of the tent and away, the grand finale to his act.

A blush rushes to Phil's face as he watches Hawkeye disappear, but it's just the heat of the spotlight. It has to be.

*

"Holy shit," Rebecca says as they get up and head through the crowd of parents, kids, and dates, the (slightly wilted) purple flower still clutched in her hand. "Holy. Shit."

"Careful," Phil smiles, "if that shit gets any more holy, you'll be taking its name in vain."

"You're full of it," she elbows him in the stomach. "I still can't believe that happened."

"I can't believe I didn't choose another seat," Phil sighs overdramatically, "We were unlucky."

"What are you talking about?!" she protests, "He totally did that on purpose. He thought I was cute."

"He was on the other side of the tent from us. He had no idea what you looked like."

"He's called _Hawkeye_ ," she shakes her head. "He totally knew what I looked like."

"We should have gone to the movies," Phil moans melodramatically as they finally emerge from the tent. He throws his empty popcorn bag into an overfilling trash can with a reluctant sigh.

"Elephants!" Rebecca says suddenly, looking all of twelve years old again. Phil follows her to where they're selling overpriced rides of elephants to kids and stands beside her to watch them.

He isn't an elephant enthusiast, however, so he ends up people watching as Rebecca chatters in his ear, catching him up on her senior year. He sees a few people pass that he recognizes from high school (most of them on dates), but no one comes up to say hello. They avoid his eye altogether, and he crosses his arms over his chest. It's even chillier out now.

"Hey," Rebecca says, a glint in her eye, "where'd you think the hot archer went?"

"Oh, god," Phil runs a hand over his face. "Rebecca, no. No, no, no. No."

"The Amazing Hawkeye?" one of the men inside the elephant enclosure asks, obviously eavesdropping. He's Phil's age or so, built up stronger from working, if the shovel in his hand is any sign. His tone is somewhat ironic, a touch towards bitter, and Phil takes an instinctive step towards Rebecca. "Are you the girl who got the rose tonight?"

Rebecca holds it up for him to see, her curiosity overriding instinct.

"Clint's usually in the back after shows," the man says, gesturing around the tent. "He won't mind an admirer or two," he smiles at Rebecca, but she ignores him, already turning on her heel to go around the tent, ducking around a rope with a sign that reads "Staff Only."

"You need to stop getting yourself into trouble," Phil huffs as he follows her, stepping over the rope.

"You need to lighten up," she shoots over her shoulder.

Together, they creep around the yellow tent, until they're surrounded by cars, trailers, and the random circus staff on a smoking break.

"There he is," Rebecca whispers, pointing to a lone figure, standing against the canvas of the tent and smoking a cigarette. Rebecca sets off ahead of Phil, clutching her rose tightly. He scrambles to catch up with her.

Hawkeye sees them coming and takes a final drag off his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stomping it out with his heel. The motion looks practiced and careful, making Phil wonders if he always does this -- stands with his arms crossed, smoking a cigarette, his silhouette like something out of a movie -- in case some girl sneaks back to see him.

He looks the part, too, with his blonde hair spiked up and the makeup from his act quickly scrubbed off the rest of his face, save some stubborn eyeliner smeared around his eyes. It makes him look tired and lost, although Phil would bet from the worn leather jacket thrown over his costume that he’s trying to look casually messy.

"Hey," Rebecca says brightly, no shyness at all in her smile, "I just wanted to say, you did a great job out there. And, thank you."

"Thank _you,_ " he says, smirking a little, and yeah, Phil would bet anything that this is a part of his act, too. "What're you doing back here?" he drawls, glancing over Phil for a long moment before turning his eyes back to Rebecca. "Maybe you and your boyfriend should go back and get some cotton candy? Before he gets jealous." Hawkeye does it again -- head turned right at Rebecca, he glances over at Phil. And winks.

"I'm her brother," Phil says firmly, meeting his gaze. "We were just saying hi. Now, we're leaving."

"Oh, come on," Hawkeye tilts his head, "in that case, why don't you stay?" He lowers his eyelids a little to stare up at Phil from underneath his eyelashes and that's it; Phil can't believe he's doing that to him, right in front of his _sister._

"C'mon, I'm sorry -- I didn't introduce myself," he says suddenly, holding out a hand. Rebecca takes it awkwardly. "Clint Barton."

"Rebecca Coulson," she says, voice wavering to a more guarded tone. "And this is my brother, Phil."

"Phil," Clint says, holding out his hand. Against his better instinct, Phil takes it. Clint squeezes before he lets go, fingers trailing across Phil's wrist as he pulls away. It makes Phil's palms itch.

"So, how long have you been in the circus?" Phil asks, before the silence becomes awkward.

"Since I was twelve," Clint shrugs, glancing from Phil to Rebecca, his posture turning stiffer. "You folks live around here?"

"Just in town," Rebecca answers. Her voice sounds cool now, and Phil's heart sinks in his chest. "We should probably be getting back. Mom will worry."

"See you around," Clint says as Rebecca turns on her heel and walks back around the curve of the tent. Phil smiles apologetically without thinking and gets a smug smile from Clint in return. He ignores it as he turns to follow Rebecca. She's already jumped over the "Staff Only" sign and made her way back into the main carnival and he follows her at a distance, jogging to catch up.

"Hey!" Phil says when he reaches Rebecca, catching her arm and forcing her to slow down. "What was that about? Are you okay?"

"I'm not stupid," she huffs. "Just a bit miffed about guys fake flirting with me so they can hit on my _brother_." Phil quiets and runs a hand over his short hair.

"You noticed," he says stiffly, his voice flat.

"Of course I--" she starts, fire in her eyes, and then stops in the middle of the pathway, halfway out of the stupid carnival. Phil wishes they'd never come. Rebecca closes her eyes for a moment before she reopens them. "I'm not an idiot, you know," she says. "I'm not oblivious."

"I never said you were."

"It just hurts, you know?" she looks down. "And it's not like I’m not happy for you, or whatever," she steps on a sucker stick that some kid has thrown on the ground, pressing it into the soft dirt with her shoe. "But, just once, I'd like something to be about me. Is that so selfish?"

"No, it's not," Phil says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Which is why you're going ignore mom and to go to college and pick up tons of guys. When you're not busy studying," he adds hastily.

Rebecca smiles, softly punching him in the stomach. "Nerd," she scoffs.

"Thank you," he replies, tilting his head forward, "let's get outta here."

They walk through the slowly emptying carnival, past kids running out from underneath the watchful eye of their parents and begging for some money for games. They make it to the archway before Phil stops, smile fading as he pats down his pockets.

"What's wrong?" Rebecca asks as he stands there, his face growing hot as his pockets come up empty.

"Shit, my wallet," Phil says in disbelief. "Pickpockets? Really?"

"Maybe you left it in the tent," she suggests.

"No, I had it out when -- oh, _shit_. I know where it is. By the elephants."

"Blasphemy doesn't help you find your wallet," Rebecca says cheekily.

"Here," Phil sighs, reaching into his jacket pocket (which she's still wearing) to hand her his car keys. "Sixth row, tree, remember? You can wait there or pull up, but lock the doors. And wear a seatbelt!" he calls as she strides away carelessly.

"Yes, mom," she says, tossing the keys smugly in her hand as she heads towards the rows of cars.

Phil tracks back through the carnival, eyes searching the ground for his wallet, even though he has a pool of dread forming in his stomach. It's nowhere to be found, of course, because the universe hates him, so he retraces their footsteps back to the cordoned off area.

Hawkeye -- Clint is waiting for him, flipping Phil’s wallet in the air with a glint in his eye.

"Don’t think I don't know you pickpocketed it," Phil says, steeping forward and grabbing his wallet. Clint doesn't loosen his grip, even as he tugs on it.

"Now, why would I do that?" Clint challenges, his mouth quirking up into a smirk that's more than enough of a confession.

"You know," Phil says, lowering his voice, "you can get into a lot of trouble for less.”

"Then, why don't you show me _more_?" Clint murmurs, stepping closer and tugging on Phil's damn wallet.

It's such a _line_ that Phil steps back, surrendering his wallet and glancing around. The courtyard seems empty, but he doesn't like being alone here. He bunches his hands into fists.

"Look, kid," he starts, but Clint laughs.

"I'm as old as you, man," he says, "don't _kid_ me."

"I'm sure," Phil raises an eyebrow. "Now, give me back my wallet. My sister is waiting for me. I have to get her home." The responding silence is broken only by Phil's fierce stare.

"Alright, whatever," Clint says finally, throwing his wallet back. "Sorry," he mutters as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, "that's never really worked before, anyways."

Phil takes in his posture: he's hunched over, disappointed and rejected, swallowed up in a jacket a size too big for him. He's just some poor circus kid, Phil thinks, and he has to be the youngest of them.

"Look," Phil sighs, taking pity on him, "how old are you, really? Don’t give me any shit. I’m not going to rat you out.”

"I'll be nineteen in the fall," Clint admits, still not looking him in the eye, "What are you? Twenty-something? Yeah, I get it; I'm just a stupid kid--"

"You're not a stupid kid," Phil says, sticking his hand into his pocket and digging around for a pen. He reaches out and grabs Clint's hand, cursing when the ink doesn't flow, and stops to open his wallet and scribble on his discount card for some ice cream place until the pen starts working.

"What’re you--?"

"The semester just ended and I'm back visiting for a week," Phil explains. His mouth is dry as he scribbles his home phone number on Clint's palm. His hand is warm and calloused, with dark bruises coloring his forearm above his wrist, probably from his archery. Phil shakes himself from his thoughts. "Ask for Phil. If they ask who it is, you're someone from high school who wants to meet up."

"Supposing I wanna meet up," Clint replies. Phil caps the pen with narrowed eyes.

"You talk a lot of shit," he says, shoving his wallet and pen back into his pocket. Clint laughs.

"See you around," Clint winks one last time as Phil turns to leave.

*

Phil, true to his sister's predictions, is in the middle of sorting through his boxes of dusty comics in his old room when the phone rings out in the hall. He jumps to his feet, hopping over the piles of comics and accidentally colliding two with each other.

"Hello?" Rebecca says into the phone. She grins when she sees him slide to the edge of the hallway and curls her fingers tightly around the cord. She meets Phil’s eyes, presumably as the other person responds, and smirks. "Hmm, let me see," she says in a teasing voice, "I don't know if Phil's here right now."

"You are _evil_ ," he growls as he darts forward, reaching for the phone. Rebecca sidesteps him and holds the phone back, stopping him from getting to it.

"Uh, nuh-uh," she says, swinging the phone just out of his reach. Phil reaches for it, but she pokes him in the stomach, tickling him.

"Evil," he hisses.

"Only if you promise to drive me to Michael's tonight," Rebecca hisses, "and cover for me."

"You're supposed to be at Dawn's," Phil crosses his arms. "Mom will kill you."

"Mom isn't gonna know," she dangles the phone temptingly. "But she will know about where you really went instead of Prom if --"

"Fine," Phil sighs. Rebecca tosses the phone at him and he catches it, taking a deep breath before he answers. "Hello?" he says.

"Siblings, huh?" Clint replies, the amused smile in his voice carrying through the phone. Phil leans against the wall next to the phone dock and laughs a little recklessly as panic builds up in his chest.

"Yeah," he says, ready to die of embarrassment as Rebecca crosses her arms and stands in the doorway to her room, leaning against the door jamb with a smug expression on her face. Unfortunately, the phone cord won't stretch into his room for privacy.

"So, uh," Clint sounds awkward for a moment before he clears his throat. Phil doesn’t quite know what to say, either, so he listens to a car rush past on the other end of the line. He imagines Clint at a payphone somewhere in town. "You still up for -- how did you put it --?" a hint of his previous smugness enters his voice, "'meeting up?'"

"Um," Phil blinks, mind searching for something, anything they can do -- he checked the circus fliers earlier and saw that they had two shows during the day on Sunday, but he hadn't counted on Clint to actually call him before they packed up and left town. "They'll be showing a double feature at the drive-in," he mutters into the phone as Rebecca makes a faux-scandalized face with her hand held over her mouth to hide her grin.

”I wasn’t aware that you were taking me on a _date_ ,” Clint says. He sounds smug. Relieved, maybe?

“You can call me a lot of things,” Phil says, “rude is not among them.” He glares as Rebecca bites down on her knuckle and dissolves into muffled giggles.

“Well,” Clint says. “I’ve never been to a drive-in before,” he admits. Phil can't help but feel a little sorry for him.

"Where should I pick you up?" he asks forcefully, trying not to say something stupid in reply.

"Uh…" he hears a door creak open as Clint presumably pokes his head out of the payphone booth.”Corner of Third and Broad?"

"Okay," Phil says, eyes moving up from Rebecca's smirk to the peeling plaster of the ceiling. "Eight okay?" That gives him an hour and a half to get ready, he thinks, and then he has to fill up on gas…

"Right," Clint replies, clearing his throat. "See you then."

"Bye," Phil says. Clint hangs up, and all he can hear is his heart beating in his ears.

"Well then," Rebecca raises her eyebrows. Phil closes his eyes and pretends that she isn't there. "Looks like we've both got ourselves a date night."

*

Phil, true to his word, drops his sister off outside Michael's, who turns out to be the host of quite the party. Phil faintly remembers his older brother from high school -- not that he'd ever been invited to one of those parties.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says as Rebecca opens the passenger door. Her friends are waiting for her on the curb. "If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out."

"You should do something stupid for a change," she says, kissing him on the cheek, "maybe it'd get that stick out of your ass."

She slams the door shut and waves, making Phil sigh. He's a sucky brother, he thinks. He's not supposed to encourage her.

Numbly, Phil drives a few streets over to Broad, keeping an eye out in the dim light for Clint. His heart beats in his chest, berating him, and he wonders what the hell he's doing, going on a date -- an actual date, like he hasn't been on since he was a stupid freshman in college -- with some kid from the circus.

Clint's waiting for him at the payphone, leaning up against it with a cigarette between his fingers burning a light in the falling dusk. Phil stops at the curb and leans across the front seat to roll down the passenger side window.

"Hey," he says. “Are you coming, or are you going to stand there and try to look badass all night?” Clint laughs and grounds out his cigarette into the sidewalk with the same forced motion from before. Phil opens the door for Clint and he slides in, giving Phil a chance gets a chance to check out what he's wearing. He looks different out of his circus costume and makeup, almost younger in his old t-shirt, ratty jeans, and black boots underneath the oversized leather jacket.

"Almost thought you changed your mind," Clint says as he slams the door shut, only half joking. "Thought I was gonna get arrested for loitering."

"I had to drop my sister off," Phil says as he pulls away from the curb and head down the street at the speed limit. "Sorry."

"No, it's -- what movie's showing?" Clint asks, changing his tactic mid-sentence.

"No idea," Phil chuckles, turning the radio on. "I just got back from on Thursday. I’m leaving next weekend, anyways."

Clint nods, and asks in a casual voice, "How old are you, anyways?"

"Twenty-one," Phil says, "an old man, I know."

"Nah," Clint waves his hand, "you're my brother's age; his name is Barney. He, um, works at the circus too," he adds hastily.

"Really?" Phil asks, playing with the radio dial at a stoplight. He doesn't want to pry too much. "Any younger siblings?"

"Uh, no," Clint shakes his head. "I'm the youngest there, really. They're not fond of kids, but." He leaves the sentence unfinished.

"So, your parents work at the circus?" He knows it's wrong the moment he says it, but he can't take the words back now. "Sorry," Phil amends hastily, "that was none of my business."

"Nah. It's just that my parents died when I was younger," Clint says. When Phil glances over in the dark car, he's surrounded in shadow, half swallowed up in his jacket. "We were sent to this orphanage for awhile, but it didn’t work out. We kind of -- and, god, this sounds stupid -- ran away to the circus." He laughs a little.

"That's…actually kind of cool," Phil says, smiling. He tilts his head to the side. "And ridiculous. I don't believe you. At all."

"Fine, tell me, when was the last time you did a couple flips on a high wire?"

"Not sure about acrobatics, but I've passed through a few obstacle courses in my day."

There's a pause, and then Clint nods. "Military?" he ventures.

"Army," Phil elaborates, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Mom wasn't too fond of the idea, and it's a free ride…" He trails off, not willing to get into his family right now. Or ever, really.

"I never even finished high school," Clint says. Phil just shrugs, trying not to judge the kid. It's a crazy story, but it's also kind of sad. "Don't pity me, though," Clint interjects as though he's reading Phil's mind. "I've made a living for myself. I know how. I'm not dumb."

"Never thought you were," Phil says. They dissolve into silence as he approaches the drive-in and pays for the car. Clint doesn't offer to pay half of it and Phil doesn't say anything about it -- he asked in the first place, and he's anything if not a gentleman.

Thankfully, the movie is some dumb action movie. Phil pulls around to a good spot near the back and parks the car. He turns and reaches into the backseat for the bag of snacks he brought (because seriously, who doesn't sneak snacks into a drive-in?) and becomes very aware of Clint ogling his ass. He smiles as he settles back into his seat and tries not to blush.

"Rebecca said I was a nerd for bringing snacks, but--" Clint interrupts him with a laugh and reaches into the bag. Their fingers brush and Phil bites back a smile.

"And I was gonna buy you popcorn," Clint says easily, eyeing the bag of pretzels that he pulls out. "Now, I’m just embarrassed."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me," Phil smiles.

They lapse into a comfortable silence as the movie's opening titles fade to gunfire and whatever action-heavy nonsense that follows. To his surprise, Clint doesn't try anything. He finishes his bag of pretzels in silence and casually steals two sticks of gum from Phil's stash that he keeps in the extra cup holders.

Phil watches Clint’s silhouette in the passenger seat. The flickering light of the movie tints his face blue and yellow, sending shadows across his face and chiseling out the features of his nose and cheekbones in the dimness. He’s discarded his jacket and thrown it in the back seat since he got into the car, so the strength of his arms shows through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Clint glances over and catches him staring. Phil flinches away, startled, but Clint just laughs and bites his lip.

“Enjoying the show?”Clint winks, stretching out provocatively, almost catlike in his movements.

“You’re all talk,” Phil smirks. He expects Clint to laugh and prove him wrong, throw out a line or make a move, but he doesn’t. He looks away, the ghost of a frown half-visible on his face. Phil leans over and brushes a hand over his shoulder, hoping that the contact will settle him.

“Hey?” he asks softly, “you okay with this?”

“Yeah,” Clint nods too quickly. “Yeah, I just. I really like you,” he admits quietly. There’s something there, an unsureness that he’s only heard once before in Clint’s voice. “It’s dumb, ‘cause I’m leaving soon. But, for what it’s worth…” he trails off.

"That's not dumb, I'm leaving, too," Phil says without thinking, and hastily adds, "I like you, too.” Clint smiles weakly over at him, and Phil smiles back. “Do you mind if I try something?” he asks.

At Clint’s nod, Phil reaches over and sets a hand on his forearm. His arms are muscular, beautiful, really, especially because of all of that hard work (he really doubts Clint could afford steroids, now) and dedication. It’s admirable. Phil runs his thumb lightly over the mottled bruise he’d noticed before, careful not to press down on it, and moves his fingers over Clint’s wrist, massaging his pulse point. He reaches for Clint’s other hand and runs his fingertips over his wrist and down the underside of his arms, stopping to stroke the soft skin at the inside of his elbows with his thumbs.

Phil smiles when Clint leans forward over the gearshift, past water bottles in their cup holders, Phil’s stash of gum, and the other dumb things he keeps in his car. Phil holds him back for a moment with two hands on his upper arms, just long enough to lift one hand and cup Clint’s cheek.

“Oh, come on,” Clint smirks, his cockiness back in spades. Phil raises his eyebrows, but he tilts his head to the side and pulls Clint in for the kiss.

It takes them a moment to find the right angle, and even then their lips meet inexpertly, and somewhat sloppily. Their noses and chins grind together awkwardly until Phil tilts his head a little more to the right, and Clint braces himself with a hand on Phil’s shoulder.

Clint’s breath is hot and minty in Phil’s mouth, just enough to barely cover the taste of cigarettes to which Phil is unaccustomed. Clint’s lips are warm and smiling as they press into Phil’s, his mouth pliant and too eager at first. Phil knows it’s far from perfect, but he still feels heat from the kiss pool up inside him. He runs his hand back to the nape of Clint’s neck to pull him closer when Clint suddenly jolts back, startling him.

“Oh my god,” Clint says breathlessly, putting his hand up to his mouth, “I’m still chewing my gum.” He laughs, embarrassed and half-shaking in the half-light. Phil swallows a chuckle as he quickly rolls down the window and spits it out into the grass. The breeze is cool on his face for a moment before Clint rolls the window back up.

"You were trying so hard to be smooth," Phil chuckles, betting that Clint is bright red now and wishing there was enough light to finally see him blush.

"Shut up," Clint mumbles, running a hand through his hair. Phil leans over and kisses him chastely, cherishing it for a moment.

"No," Phil says defiantly, smirking before he kisses Clint again. They’re being kind of silly, Phil thinks as they fall back into a kiss with a little maneuvering over the cup holders. He probably should have cleaned his car.

Clint doesn't seem to mind, though, as he reaches over and runs his hands over the hem of Phil's t-shirt, rucking up the edge and meeting bare skin with his fingertips. It sends a jolt through Phil’s body and he presses into Clint, taking Clint’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugging on it gently. Clint groans into his mouth and Phil licks his swollen bottom lip, this time taking a fistful of Clint’s hair as he bites at his lip again.

They pull away gasping for air, but Clint takes the initiative and kisses down Phil’s jaw, pausing to suck at his neck hard enough to bruise.

“Are you _trying_ to get my sister to rag on me?” Phil groans, arching his neck. Clint laughs, his chuckle vibrating at Phil’s neck, and moves down a little further, just below the collar of his t-shirt. Phil can smell Clint’s shampoo, the faint air of sweat and deodorant in the soft hair that rubs against his chin as Clint greedily sucks a bruise into his skin. He’s doing it on purpose, Phil knows, just because he _can_ , and it sends shivers down his spine to think that he’ll have to repay him the favor later on.

When Clint runs a brave hand up underneath the hem of his shirt and then down, finger ghosting underneath his waistband, Phil gasps and covers Clint’s fingers with his own.

“Whoa, tiger,” Phil says as Clint pulls back, breathing heavily. His voice sounds hoarse and rough; he’s so gone.

“Sorry,” Clint moves back even further. “Sorry,” he repeats, his voice just as thick with want as Phil’s.

“Later,” Phil promises in a heavy tone. He meets Clint’s darkened eyes before he leans forward again to kiss him, running his hands greedily over Clint’s arms and gasping when Clint goes too fast again and brushes up against bare skin, dipping his fingers between fabric and skin. Phil moves to stop him, but Clint just snaps his waistband and laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Phil mutters as Clint smugly sucks at his neck, claiming more territory for his own.

He whispers in Phil’s ear, “Oh, I try,” and does something with his tongue that makes Phil’s breath go short.

They miss the end of the movie.

*

When Phil wakes up, there's light streaming into his eyes and he feels cramped and too hot. It takes him a moment to realize where he is -- a too small-bed in a tiny trailer home, with Clint's (nicely muscular) arm draped over his middle. There are sheets half-draped over the two of them in the stifling trailer, which Phil is grateful for, at least, as he’s still naked.

He feels strangely exposed, even though he shouldn't be, not now. He blinks up at the stained yellow ceiling and tries to keep his mind alert so he doesn’t fall back asleep. He should leave. He should wake Clint. He doesn't want to, though, and he wonders how fair the universe thinks it's being to him that he only ever gets a date when there's no chance they'll be able to have a second one.

Clint could probably sleep through anything, Phil muses as he rolls out of the bed and trips over the floor. He finds his clothes thrown unceremoniously into a pile on the floor and pulls them on, thinking with dread about the walk of shame through the camp of trailers. There's no way he won't be seen leaving, even though they'd attempted to be discreet when he'd parked his car a ways off. It's kind of a dead giveaway, though, to park in the middle of the state fairgrounds, not far from the rest of the circus.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?" Clint asks, startling Phil as he pulls his rumpled t-shirt over his head. He trips a little over his own feet and emerges, blinking owlishly at Clint.

Clint looks morose, sitting back in his tiny bed with the sheets pulled over him still, his chest bare. If Phil had thought he was gorgeous in the half-light from last night then, well, he’s perfect, now. How the hell did a nerd like him manage to find a guy like _this_? Phil feels a spike of pure lust and blames it on his hormones.

"Uh," Phil swallows. His throat feels thick and his mouth dry. "Sorry, I wasn't going to --"

"It's okay," Clint shrugs. "As much as -- uh, you should leave before Barney decides I've had enough time with the trailer to myself," he says, looking around for his own clothes.

"Right," Phil nods. He didn't even think of that, or who Clint shared the trailer with. To be fair, he'd been kind of preoccupied. "So, you share this place with him?" he asks conversationally as he ties his shoes.

"Yeah," Clint gets out of bed and snatches his clothes from the floor. "He's screwing the Tattooed Lady," Clint makes a face as he pulls on his pants, "but he'll come sauntering back before long."

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast?" Phil suggests, a little hopelessly. "Or--"

"I gotta help pack up, we’re leaving by noon," Clint frowns, looking down at his bare feet. "But, for what it's worth, I had a great time."

Phil feels kind of like an idiot, but he beams. "Me too."

He walks over to Clint. In his shoes, he's just taller than him -- tall enough to make Clint lean up to kiss him one last time, sweet and slow and tasting a little too much of morning breath for Phil’s tastes. Clint smile falters when he pulls away. Phil's spirits sinks a little at the thought of him out on the road, alone. He still feels a little sorry for him.

"Here," he says, rummaging around in his pockets for a pen that he's probably lost somewhere along the line. Clint helpfully hands him a pencil from a pile on a counter, and he digs around in his wallet for the scribbled-on ice cream discount card. "If you don't spend it on a sundae so you can get a free ice cream," he jokes about the nine out of ten punched holes on the card as he writes on the blank reverse, "this is my address. For this summer, at least, I have an apartment."

"Alright," Clint takes the card with a smile, like he doesn't quite know what to do with it (or maybe because he doesn't know what to give in return).

"Send me a postcard," Phil shrugs, "and let me know if you're ever in New York."

***

As soon as the door to his office clicks shut behind him, Phil leans against it and closes his eyes.

_"That's not how I remember it."_

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. One little phrase -- six stupid words -- and he tore down years upon years of carefully built up trust and teamwork.

Phil opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, imagining Barton’s shocked face in the cafeteria and his spluttering as he put two and two together. Phil didn’t have to spell it out, thankfully. He just threw his lunch away and left nonchalantly, like he’d suddenly lost his appetite, and like the tips of his ears weren’t burning bright red.

He still has a pit in his stomach, but it sure as hell isn't from skipping lunch.

“Good job, Phil,” he says to himself as he shuffles across the office to his desk. He sets down the thermos he hadn't had a chance to fill before his hasty retreat and sighs. “You put your fucking foot in it. As usual. You and your big mouth.”

“Coulson?” Barton’s voice carries through the door. Phil freezes with a hand trailing over the files stacked upon his desk.

Barton knocks a few times when the door doesn’t open, but Phil doesn’t say a word.

“Phil. I know you’re in there,” Barton growls, “I heard you talking to yourself.” Phil runs a hand over his face and collapses into his desk chair to collect himself before he answers.

"Come in," he says, voice coming out more weak and tired than he'd intended. There is a moment of hesitation where Phil wonders if Barton is going to come in at all. Then, the door slides open softly.

Phil quickly grabs a pen and sets it to the paper before him in a last-minute attempt to look like he isn’t agonizing over his mistake. He doesn’t look up, but he listens to Barton step inside and the door slide shut behind him. Phil keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the form in front of him as Barton walks over to a chair and sits in it with a soft creak of leather. Barton sighs quietly, the noise deep in his chest. Phil tries to calm the fast-paced beating of his heart that’s urging him to flee with a deep breath. It doesn’t work.

"Barney used to tell me that my big mouth would get me into trouble one day," Barton says, breaking the silence. Phil stops breathing.

"He was right. You've talked yourself into a lot of corners," Phil replies, his voice weak and lacking the usual dry, unflappable tones of which he’s so proud. He sets down the pen in his hand.

"And you're always there to talk me out of them," Barton says. Phil finally looks up, but he can't quite meet his eye.

"Rebecca always said I never thought before I opened my mouth, and that was the only reason people liked me," Phil says. When Barton remains silent and turns his gaze on his hands, folded in his lap, Phil continues. He feels obliged to fill the silence with words. "She was right. Usually is. She's a neurosurgeon now," he says, the pride in his words seeming out of place in this conversation. Barton doesn’t respond.

Phil swallows. His dry throat makes a clicking noise. "I'm…sorry," he manages, "I fucked up."

"That's one way to interpret it," Barton responds. Phil tries to read his tone, but he can't. He sounds so guarded, and rightfully so.

"I shouldn't have said it like that," Phil says.

"No," Barton shakes his head. "You shouldn't have _lied_ to me."

"I didn't lie--" Phil starts, but Barton sits upright and crosses his arms. A scowl grows on his face.

"You lied."

"Telling you," he pauses, "would have been inappropriate. Unprofessional," Phil tries.

"It's been unprofessional for awhile, _Phil_." Barton's voice catches over his first name. When Phil opens his mouth to protest, Barton holds up a finger and snaps, "Don't you deny it. I'm not stupid. Even if you're counting on it."

"I don't know what you mean," Phil says quickly. Barton pauses.

"Y'know, 'Tasha's right," Barton growls, half to himself. "You're the emotionally stunted one, not me," he laughs bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "At least, tell me; when did you figure it out?"

"After our first mission together," Phil replies. "I thought you looked familiar, so I checked your file." He meets Barton in the eye accidentally and he scowls back at him.

"And you didn't say anything? Even after you became my _handler_?" Barton's eyes sparkle blue and angry, telling him how badly he's fucked up.

"It would have been even more inappropriate," he says as calmly as he can muster, but his façade is cracking around the edges now. "You can't just say 'Hey? Remember that one night stand from your teenage years?' to a subordinate." That, at least, is true. Phil may not always be personable, but he is respectful when it's due.

“No, I still don’t get it,” Barton starts, “I mean, why you thought you had to lie to me in the first place.” He sighs loudly and meets Phil in the eye, a foreboding smirk building on his face, “So what? We had a one night stand? It happened ages ago,” he gestures vaguely with a hand. “It’s not like you fucked me over your desk in a -- very literal -- debrief.” He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

“Barton,” Phil protests, his mouth going dry.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I being inappropriate?” Barton asks. He crosses his arms in a challenge. “Why are you so ashamed? Is it because the junior agents gossip about us all the time? Are you _embarrassed_ that there’s some truth in it? That you – that you fucked the asset? Did you hear the one where I sucked you off in a supply closet between meetings?” He laughs bitterly.

“Barton,” Phil says in a strangled voice, “stand down.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Barton sneers, “was _I_ being a dick about it?”

Phil closes his eyes for a moment.

“What is wrong with you?” Barton says, throwing his hands into the air. “I knew you could be a hardass, but I’ve never known you to back down from a fight. What the hell, Phil?”

Phil considers his options. He could lie -- pretend he didn't recognize Barton the moment he laid eyes on him, or that he thought it was inconsequential, or that he didn't care -- and it would be easy. Too easy. The truth is much harder than that. It's what Clint deserves, though.

"I didn't want to ruin this," Phil admits carefully. "We work well together," he says, not talking simply of spies and ambushes and black ops, but late nights with take-out and terrible movie rentals. "And, before that, it didn't matter."

"Jesus, Phil," Barton scrubs his hands over his face and his voice comes out muffled. "It happened years ago. Do you really think we're not mature enough to deal with that now?"

“I think you just proved that you aren’t,” he points out.

Barton laughs, “Yeah, okay, clever. You really got me there. I’ll just pretend that _I’m_ the one struggling to deal with this.” He flattens his palms on the arms of the leather chair and pushes himself to his feet.

“Wait, Barton,” Phil says, but Barton ignores him as he heads for the door.

Phil takes a deep breath, and then says, “ _Clint._ ”

Clint freezes.

"I'm sorry," Phil says. "It was selfish and stupid. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I – I’d like to talk about it,” he says in a rush of air.

Clint turns and walks towards him. He brushes a pile of files and pens off the edge of Phil’s desk and makes himself comfortable sitting on the edge of Phil’s desk. Phil hesitates to speak again.

"You said it was selfish," Clint prompts, crossing his arms. Phil straightens up in his desk chair and tries to meet Clint’s eye.

"I didn't tell you because I wanted everything to remain as it was," Phil admits. "By the time I became your handler, I knew we had -- we _have_ \-- something good together. I like working with you, being…close to you. I didn't want to screw that up," he says, mouth dry with nervousness. "I didn't want to be…hurt," he finishes in a small voice, heart pounding in his ears.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Clint says in a low voice. "Jesus, Phil, I'd never do that -- not on purpose. Not if you tell me what's going on in there." He rubs a hand over his face. "Although I could hazard a guess. I'm not blind, you know," he chuckles, "even if I can't tell what you look like a few decades later."

"It hasn't been _that_ long," Phil mutters, not denying anything. Clint allows him a small smile.

"You gotta be honest with me if you don’t want to screw this up,” Clint says. “You can’t expect me to okay with you lying about something important.”

“You don’t…think this makes things awkward?” Phil asks tentatively.

“Not if we don’t let it,” Clint shakes his head. He pushes off from Phil’s desk and turns to face him properly. “You’re such an idiot sometimes,” he says fondly. “Your sister was right.” Phil makes a show of sighing like he’s offended, but he’s really just relieved.

“What about?” he asks tentatively.

“You don’t always think before you open your mouth,” he says. “It’s a good thing I like that about you.”

Phil can’t hide his grin. “You sure about that?” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” Clint nods. “Now, let’s get out of here and go get some pancakes. We can talk.”

Phil hesitates before he gets to his feet. “Pancakes? It’s late afternoon.”

“I know,” Clint says, “but I vaguely remember you proposing that we go get breakfast the morning after. I’m just taking you up on the offer.” He winks again with his gaze fixed squarely on Phil and a smirk growing on his face.

“It’s a date,” Phil smiles.


End file.
